


Sense and Sensitivity

by gutterandthestars



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Blankets, First Time, Fluff and Smut, Nest!fic, Nesting, Other, gentle emotional sex, soft
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-21
Updated: 2019-09-21
Packaged: 2020-10-25 12:23:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,080
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20724158
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gutterandthestars/pseuds/gutterandthestars
Summary: Crowley is in denial, but sooner or later he has to face the reality of what he’s doing. He’s nesting. It’s understandably difficult...A little nesting fic, because it turns out that that nonsense is extremely my kink. The premise of this one is that the nester selects items representing the five senses to offer the nestee. Then there’s fucking. So, to summarise, it’s cute soft furnishings, more soft furnishings, frantic panic and pining, then porn.This is split into two chapters, the first of which is entirely suitable for general audiences and the second of which is really not.





	1. Sense

**Author's Note:**

> Enormous thanks to escriveine for the beta!

**Present Day…**

All of Crowley’s senses are on high alert. Aziraphale stands in Crowley’s flat ahead of him, waved onwards by Crowley’s willing gesture of invitation. The angel removes his tailcoat and hangs it on a peg, adjusting his bowtie and looking back at Crowley expectantly. 

Crowley tweaks the lapels of his jacket nervously and shuffles from foot to foot, before giving in to the tension and pacing past Aziraphale and into the middle of his living room. 

This, he thinks, is just embarrassing. He’s already faced the end of all things and survived. So why does this feel so, so much worse? 

He pinches the bridge of his nose. Oh yes, because it is. Great heavens with a Cadbury’s flake and sprinkles, it’s so much worse.

Some Weeks Ago…

**...Touch…**

The first time, he doesn’t really think anything of it; it’s just the way the bloody thing feels in his hand. It would have been — could have been — his first clue, but one data point is hardly enough for even the most suspicious and self-critical demon to discern a trend, and something he just does stuff for the h — for the sake of it. So who’s to tell? He’s chaotic. It’s kind of his thing. Less a career and more a calling. So, yes, in retrospect, he thinks the first item can be easily excused...

It’s somewhere during those first few weeks after the world didn’t end. He’s in no hurry to reckon with his somewhat empty schedule, or his echoey flat, or his residual concern for the angel — who’s  _ quite alright, Crowley, do stop fussing _ — or the impending existential crisis he’s probably due now he’s of no fixed employment. He’s just mooching around and enjoying the sunny autumnal days. He’s been for a wander around Green Park to take the air and occasionally bullshit inquisitive tourists hovering around the Victoria Memorial, feeding them increasingly unlikely historical nonsense. They eat it up, every time. Crowley is very good. You know, in the sense of being full of excellence. Not in the pejorative sense.

Crowley is making his way to the bookshop now. Picadilly is bustling and he’s half a mind to drop into Fortnum & Mason to find something to replace Aziraphale’s stock of smoky tea with a tea that — post bookshop-conflagration — Crowley can actually stomach without the sound of flames roaring in his ears. In the end, though, he gets distracted by the brass plaque of the Geological Society opposite and winds up laughing at their scientifically valid but, as happens, entirely erroneous raison d’etre. Not their fault God’s got a flair for bullshit outmatching even Crowley. He spares a glance sky-ward, tips a two fingered salute — the polite sort, from his forehead — to the Almighty in acknowledgement of a prank well executed.

He’s so amused he strides right past Fortnum’s and, by the time he realises, Crowley is further diverted by the craft market in the courtyard outside St James’. Yes, it’s the grounds of a church, but the paths winding around the little booths are laid with coconut matting, so there’s protection of a sort. He checks he’s wearing actual shoes, decides to chance it, and wanders through the gate.

The soles of his feet barely sting. 

There’s bunting, and something somewhere smells of patchouli. The stalls offer the usual fare: expensive cheeses and modish pottery, blown glass and craft-brewed ale, but it’s the woodworker’s stall that draws his gaze. The objects just beg him to run his hands over them. Crowley’s not usually one for softness and comfort, or the aesthetics of warm wood, but he finds himself strangely absorbed. His fingers, with their chipped black polish, skate feather-light over the hessian table cloth before he gives in to impulse. Scowling at the hopeful smile from the stall owner and their wordless invitation, he touches his fingertips to inlaid boxes and various toys, before letting his attention rest on a walnut comb. 

The comb is warm and smooth, the grain of the golden, knotted wood polished to a shine by the craftsperson’s care and affection. Crowley picks it up, because its very shape is crying out for someone to do so, and it falls to the hand so nicely, the curve of the handle slotting into the heel of his palm, the broad edge pleasingly solid under his fingers. It’s not his style at all. But the angel might like it, he thinks, so he purchases it and it ends up sitting in the inner pocket of his jacket, forgotten, for at least another week.

He’s eventually reminded when he stretches out his arms and it pokes his ribs. He’s in his flat, so he drops it on the dressing table in his cold, angular bunker of a bedroom, and thinks nothing more of it. 

**...Smell...**

After 6000 years, Crowley knows what Aziraphale smells like: cologne that always puts Crowley in mind of warm cookies, cut with the menthol sting of snuff and the faintly mushroomy scent of old books. Comforting, he always thinks, in the private recesses of his mind.

Conversely, Crowley’s flat smells of compost. It’s good compost — he’s got to give the plants a fair shout, after all, before he gives them the other sort — but it’s still, when you get right down to it, dirt. So, yes, compost and the damp odour of unfinished concrete. It’s the inevitable result of Crowley’s cultivation of a very deliberate look, but it’s not what you’d call inviting. Or comforting. To pick a word at random. 

He’s fretful at this point, antsy and unmoored and not really able to articulate why. If he stops and thinks about it, there are plenty of reasons why he ought to be. He’s pissed off both of his former employers and effectively destroyed two careers. Who is he now, now they stand with and for humanity? What is he doing with himself? Should he get a hobby? A pet? Some other creature to care for and terrorise? No, the existential crisis can’t be held at bay forever. But this inner discomfort feels like something else, something itching under his skin, a need to do, or to make, to create — and isn’t  _ that  _ a human thing? Image of God indeed.

It’s merely a whim that has him nip into The White Company and grab some scented candles smelling of berries, peppermint and cinnamon, and he almost immediately feels his shoulders relax.

He places them on the dressing table next to the wooden comb, which he chooses to ignore. It almost helps.

**...See...**

Crowley contemplates the blanket. 

It’s… not completely hideous? It’s a green and biscuit brown herringbone and it’s not tartan but he feels it’s sort of tartan adjacent. The green is reminiscent of his plants, and the beige is reminiscent of his angel. It’s large enough to swamp even Crowley’s monster of a bed. It’s perfect. 

He wants to strangle himself with it.

Crowley runs his fingers through the twisted tassels of other, lesser, blankets and mourns the loss of his cool. Honestly, by this point — several weeks down the line, in the driving rain of late October — Crowley has an inkling as to what’s going on. He’s still putting off thinking about it directly but, as he finds himself inspecting the soft furnishings on display in the banal and not at all demonic haberdashery department of Liberty’s, he’s less and less able to cling to the fraying ends of his plausible deniability. 

Fuck it. 

He grabs the offending item, growls at the cashier as she swipes his credit card, waves away the receipt and sweeps out of the shop to the Bentley. He jams the enormous bag in the back seat and roars off in a squeal of tyres, desperate to disappear before Aziraphale catches him parked in Soho and starts asking questions. 

When he gets home he unpacks the blanket very, very carefully and places it on his bed. Then he falls face first into it and screams.

Crowley knows of this… this… this impulse. Usually it’s angels. Or birds, of course, but Crowley is neither of these, he’s a demon. Okay, so he’s retired, but come on. There’s such a thing as dignity, and Crowley has been allowing himself to pine and moon over and fret over Aziraphale for a long time, but — bless it all to heaven and back again — it’s been a  _ secret _ . Or, if not a secret, because let’s face it, it’s really, really obviously not a secret, he’d asked the bloody angel to run away with him more than once in over the course of a single week, not long ago, and they’d held hands on the damn bus back to Crowley’s flat for fuck’s sake, but still: it’s a  _ safely ambiguous well-known-fact _ , and at least it’s been manageable. On both sides. Crowley’s overstepped a few times over the years, alright, and it hurt, but there was always this unspoken and safely nebulous uncertainty over what, exactly, was on the table here.

For Crowley, it’s everything. Always has been. 

For Aziraphale? Well, Crowley’s not sure even God knows that.

But now. This. This is not ambiguous. 

Crowley is  _ nesting _ . In his  _ bedroom _ . For  _ Aziraphale _ . 

Oh, fuck the whole thing to Betelgeuse and back, it’s excruciating. He turns his cheek to one side, chucks his sunglasses on the bedside table and sighs.

Crowley has a choice; he always has a choice. It’s his — and uurgh, he cringes deep inside when he thinks this — it’s his  _ bedroom _ for crying out loud. It’s not a room Aziraphale’s been invited into in the handful of decades Crowley’s had the flat. Aziraphale need never see any of this, need never know about it.

But, Crowley thinks, you know what? He might as well know. Yeah. Crowley’s going to own up to this bloody daft atavistic nonsense, he’s going to go for it. Aziraphale isn’t going to banish him from his life — they’ve been through far too much for that. And Crowley’s bruised heart can take it. If — when — he’s rebuffed, he can draw a line under this whole thing and move forward with whatever degree of intimacy — Crowley shudders at the word — Aziraphale’s prepared to give him. Crowley will take it and be, if not happy, then definitely grateful. Maybe he’ll still get to hold Aziraphale’s hand sometimes, if it’s dark and if they’re drunk. Maybe Crowley won’t have to lose this easy camaraderie they’ve built over the recent centuries. Even if he’s misjudged his friend’s capacity for Crowley-acceptance in the post-apocalypse and Aziraphale winds up wanting a bit of space for a decade or so, surely, surely, he’ll let them find this equilibrium again eventually. Surely.

Thus Crowley decides. He books them tickets to Hamilton, miraculously, for the following week in certain preparation for what he knows will be the next bone-deep urge to grasp hold of his hindbrain.   
  


**...Hear...**

“Angel, if you call this be-bop, we are leaving,” he tells Aziraphale, as he hands their tickets over at the door to the Victoria Palace Theatre. 

Most people still navigate a lottery or months of waiting for this, but Crowley isn’t afraid to flex his demonically miraculous muscles for a good cause. And this must, by definition, be a good cause. His brain shies away from it, but nesting — he still shudders when he lets himself think the word — is the result of a precise and specific impulse that is, by most definitions, good by its very nature. You know the word. It begins with an ‘L’. Crowley has always know he’s been capable of it, and wonders if Aziraphale knows too. 

Too late to wonder now, he tells himself, and shepherds the angel over the threshold to the bar. Aziraphale is attempting to demonstrate his grasp of the new-fangled musical lingo — of thirty years ago. 

“I know, Crowley. It’s Hip Hop,” he says, enunciating the two words quite carefully and separately, while jigging a little. He looks like a chicken in a bow tie, which Crowley tells him, and Crowley’s heart swoops in his chest, which he does not.

The musical is excellent, the young cast giving it their all and building their own interpretation of the show. Aziraphale weeps solidly through the latter half of the second act and clutches Crowley’s hand. Crowley holds on, letting his thumb sweep slowly back and forth over the angel’s knuckles and totally, utterly fails to breathe. He savours the experience, not knowing whether this is something he’ll have again if he follows through on his plans and holds his nerve.

He’s agitated, visibly, by the time they exit the theatre and Crowley conducts Aziraphale to the passenger side of the Bentley, holding the door, twitching and flexing his fingers.

“Uh, um, back to my place, Angel?” he asks, once he’s slid into the driver’s seat, tapping his hands on the wheel.

“Oh yes,” says Aziraphale, “have you anything drinkable in?” 

“‘Course I do,” says Crowley, managing a smile. Aziraphale looks pleased and his cheeks are flushed, having had a good cry. He always did like the tragedies more than Crowley did. Hamilton is very funny but undeniably sad. The characters could have used a solid dollop of common sense before throwing their relationships and lives away so needlessly.

Crowley feels a rush of lightness follow the thought, and drops his forehead to the steering wheel. Is he really doing this? Yes, yes he is.

“Are you well?” asks Aziraphale, laying a warm hand on his arm. Crowley doesn’t move.

“Yeah,” he croaks.

“Are you sure? You’ve been very… skittish lately, my dear,” the angel asks. Crowley takes a deep breath. 

“Yeah, angel. I’m sure,” he says, resigned and decided. He raises his head and fixes his eyes on the road. He feels Aziraphale’s concern radiating next to him. He ignores it. “My place, right now, yeah?”

“If you say so, Crowley,” says Aziraphale. Crowley nods, and drives.  
  


**...Taste...**

And that’s that. That’s what gets Crowley nervously pacing his living room, with a confused angel watching him and waiting for the other shoe to drop. 

The final sense, the final piece of this puzzling and animal instinct, should be taste. Crowley hasn’t taken much care with this one but he’s not too worried, at least about getting this bit in some way wrong. Aziraphale has standards when it comes to food and drink, but 6000 years is long enough to learn how to confidently meet them, particularly since the angel’s prone to rhapsodise over his desires. It’s one of the reasons Crowley’s fairly sure this evening is going to end with Aziraphale awkwardly and uncomfortably articulating his pity, and bidding Crowley farewell for at least a year or so, to let him down easy and give them both some space to adjust. If Aziraphale delighted in Crowley, with all of his senses, the way Crowley delights in him… well. Surely he’d have seen some evidence of it? 

Ho hum, thinks Crowley, and stops his pacing. He lifts his chin. Let the chips fall where they may. Aziraphale likes chips. Crowley doesn’t have any, but he does have a very fine bottle of red and some brie, grapes and soft crackers, which he duly brings from the kitchen after directing the increasingly befuddled angel towards the couch. He sets the plates in front of Aziraphale on the coffee table, one by one, almost formally. This is it. The last chance he has to forget this nonsense and just sit on his couch and drink into oblivion, with one already oblivious angel. He sits. Aziraphale clears his throat. Hoo boy.

“I know you’ve been… distressed, since Armageddon,” Aziraphale begins, cautiously.

“Nah,” says Crowley, dismissively, handing him a plate of crackers. Aziraphale cuts a chunk of brie and places it on a cracker, accepting a grape Crowley passes over, and lifts the ensemble to his mouth. He closes his eyes and chews, making a noise of utter contentment. Crowley  _ yearns _ .

Aziraphale blinks and pouts.

“No, no, my dear, you shan’t distract me,” he remonstrates, placing the remaining half of his cracker on the plate. “What is it that has you so out of sorts?” He’s ramrod straight, as usual, on the sofa, turning his body towards Crowley, eyes expectant.

Crowley drags his fingers through his hair and looks at the ceiling. He wanted to do this on his terms, but apparently it’s interrogation time, so...

Aziraphale interrupts his train of thought. “You changed the tea,” he says, nonsensically.

Crowley drops his hands. “What?”

“You changed the tea,” insists Aziraphale. “I came home one day and all my lapsang souchong had been replaced with oolong, and I know you’re the only one who drinks either of them. What’s going on?”

“Oh,” says Crowley. “Well, you know. It tastes like smoke. Had some pretty fucking awful associations for me, so I decided it was time to change it up. Out with the old, and so on. That’s… um. That’s not the big deal here,” he admits. He feels sick.

Aziraphale’s expression turns resigned and determined. “I knew there had to be something,” he says, and huffs a short breath. He reaches up and tugs off Crowley’s sunglasses, placing them firmly on the table. “Better,” he says.

Crowley raises his hands again and hides his face in them. He’s really doing this.

“ _ Crowley _ ,” chides the angel, “talk to me. Unless,” and his voice takes an uncertain tone, “unless you don’t want…” 

Crowley drops his hands like they’re on fire. 

“Angel, no, no it’s not you…” he starts. “Ugh. Look, I have something to show you. I don’t know if you’ll remember…” His throat closes up. “Nngf,” he chokes.

“Crowley?” Aziraphale asks, taking his hand, eyes enormous and ocean green in the dim light. “Remember what?”

“Remember all those silly things that used to go on, back when I was still a tiddly little goody-two-shoes with a host of questions, and you were getting kitted out for your flaming sword?”

Aziraphale’s eyebrows nearly levitate off his face.

“Do  _ I _ remember?” he cries. “I didn’t think  _ you _ did. Do you mean to say you remember Heaven?”

Crowley frowns. “Of course I remember Heaven! You think I don’t remember Heaven? Why’d you think I kept telling you they were such misbegotten dicks? Anyway, not the point,” he says, flapping a hand.

“How is it  _ not the point? _ Did I know you? Did you know me?” 

“Oh, angel,  _ so _ not the point,” Crowley growls.

“Then what, pray tell, is your point?” says Aziraphale, almost shouting.

“The point, you beautiful idiot, is that I’m  _ nesting _ ,” yells Crowley, and then promptly claps his hand to his mouth. Aziraphale’s jaw drops open.

“You’re  _ what?! _ ” he squawks.

===

They’re both silent. Crowley, having failed to incinerate with shame, leads Aziraphale to his bedroom. 

The angel hovers in the doorway for a moment, before taking a deliberate step inside. He looks around. He notes the centrepiece, the enormous bed, with the not-at-all-tartan-but-maybe-tartan-adjacent blanket. He steps up to the bedside table. He touches his mouth, as if to recall the brie and grapes, then trails his hands over the polished surface. He picks up the comb, smiling, testing its weight and stroking the soft grain of the wood, before placing it back where he found it. He sniffs the candles and smiles. He notices the gramophone Crowley’s placed in the corner of the room. 

“Is this for me?” he asks, as if he  _ has to. _ Crowley can’t bear it.

“Uh.” Crowley stops and clears his throat. “Yeah,” he says. “All for you. You know they actually made a Hamilton soundtrack you can buy on vinyl? It’s over there. Um. If you want to look. Um.” He scratches the back of his neck. 

This isn’t how he’d planned on doing this. He’s not sure what he had planned, but this isn’t it. He’d yelled at Aziraphale. Aziraphale who is currently exploring Crowley’s nest — his bedroom — and smiling softly to himself, occasionally making pleased little hums. Crowley hardly dares hope. Something in his chest feels like it’s forcing itself up into his throat, though. That might be hope. Or wind.

Aziraphale turns to scan the room again, as if memorizing it, nods, as if carefully but firmly placing the memory to one side, and steps up to grasp Crowley’s face between his hands.

Crowley nearly swallows his tongue.

“It’s a yes, of course,” the angel says, “because I know how you worry.”

Crowley nods, frantically.

“I like it,” Aziraphale continues. “I like you. I like how you look, how you smell, how you sound, how you…”

Here Aziraphale pauses, and cocks his head to one side. “Well, actually,” he corrects himself, “I don’t know how you taste. Would you let me...”

Crowley doesn’t even give him space to finish his sentence before he lunges, bending his face to Aziraphale’s and pressing his lips to the angel’s laughing mouth.


	2. Sensitivity

**...Some short minutes later...**

“I love you,” says Crowley, in a small voice. His knees have given out some time ago, and he’s kneeling on the ground before Aziraphale, who bends to kiss the top of his head.

“Oh darling,” says Aziraphale. “I love you too. I’m sorry it took me so long. I would make it up to you, if I could.” Crowley inhales. This close, he can smell warm cookies, and cinnamon, and musty, bookish angel. He sways forward, pressing his face into the buttons of Aziraphale’s waistcoat.

“Got a blanket,” says Crowley, muffled by the cloth, attempting to imbue the words with indifference. 

Aziraphale reaches behind him and runs one soft and manicured hand over the blanket. He steps back and looks meaningfully at Crowley through his lashes. 

Crowley inhales. He knows what that look means. It means Crowley has to be the one to take charge. It’s okay, he thinks. He can do that, if he has to. He’d do anything for this angel, and has. He opens his mouth, ready to step up to the challenge. 

“So you do,” observes Aziraphale, pre-empting him. “It’s terribly soft. Would you like to get on it? For me, my dear?” he asks. Crowley’s mouth snaps shut. His dick twitches. 

There is no, “oh please, Crowley, won’t you, for me?” about his tone. It’s all but an order. Crowley stares.

“Only if you like, of course,” Aziraphale adds, suddenly, reassuring. “I wouldn’t wish to rush you into anything.”

“No rush,” croaks Crowley. “I mean, yes, there’s a rush. I’ve not rushed, I mean. I’ve not… I thought I went too fast,” he says, helplessly. “Please assume my very enthusiastic consent and willing participation, angel.”

Aziraphale laughs, and as usual it’s like sunrise in summer. Crowley laughs too, until they both fall silent, gazing at each other.

“Well?” asks Aziraphale, soft, with hidden steel. 

Crowley scrambles to obey the implicit order, his limbs flailing as he rolls and claws his way into the centre of the bed. He sits up, legs stretched out in front of him, eyes wide, waiting.

Aziraphale smiles broadly, toes out of his shoes and and joins him. He unbuttons his waistcoat, then stops, pursing his lips. “You first, I think, dear boy,” he says, then proceeds to strip Crowey naked, piece by piece, while Crowley sits and shivers, moving where and when he’s indicated. Aziraphale sits back on his heels when he’s done, dishevelled but fully clothed, and surveys his work. Crowley is tense, vibrating and nervously tasting the air with his split tongue: a tuning fork with an erection. Aziraphale makes him return the favour, and Crowley responds with shaking hands and wondering kisses, and for a while they just lay there and make out, trading endearments, which is already blowing Crowley’s immortal mind. Then Aziraphale pulls back and the steel is back in his voice.

“Kneel up for me, dearest,” he instructs, making room beside him, patting Crowley on the thigh. 

“Hhhrrgh?” asks Crowley. 

“If you like,” Aziraphale clarifies.

Crowley would like very much, and he says so, and gets up on all fours, face hot as hellfire. Things like physics and the laws of nature are optional for beings like Crowley, and he might be forgiven — figuratively — for feeling as if he’d been shoved in a supercollider and accelerated to near lightspeed from nothing. It’s not too fast, he thinks. It’s not the velocity, it’s the acceleration. Crowley is lightheaded with it, or perhaps that’s just all his blood currently prioritising certain other parts of his body over his brain. 

“How’s this?” asks Aziraphale, scooching back down the bed and arranging Crowley’s limbs to his satisfaction, and Crowley mutters something affirmative and incoherent. 

Aziraphale miracles a bottle of lube and flicks the cap, and Crowley watches over his shoulder as Aziraphale squeezes a strip of gel onto his fingers and tests the consistency with the pad of his thumb. Crowley is shaking.

Aziraphale rests his other hand on the small of Crowley’s back and Crowley _ meeps _, before biting down on his bottom lip. Aziraphale smiles fondly and rubs a flat little circle, right there, warm and dry on his back with the palm of his hand.

“Oh my darling,” he sighs, as if in bliss, “if this is what you want, you’re going to have to relax. Can you do that? Can you do that for me?”

Crowley swallows the flood of saliva filling his mouth and nods. “Mnnnnhh,” he says, and hopes Aziraphale can interpret that for the desire that it is.

Aziraphale flexes his fingers and presses carefully either side of Crowley’s spine, gently massaging the muscles where his palm had previously rested. It shouldn’t be erotic at all, but Crowley is very imaginative and anticipation is a cruel tease. He’s harder than he’s been in his life, he’s probably dripping with it. He’s certainly desperate for it.

“Good boy,” says Aziraphale with a final affirming pat, and slides his slick fingers down the crease of Crowley’s cheeks.

“Oh fuck”, gasps Crowley. He still can’t believe this is happening. They’re going to wreck the nice blanket, he thinks, nonsensically, forgetting he can miracle it clean with a thought.

Aziraphale parts his cheeks one handed, letting the lubed up fingers trail down to his entrance and beyond to the horribly sensitive patch of skin behind his balls. Crowley yelps, partly from over-stimulation, partly from the sensation of cold and wet. 

"Sorry, my dear,” mutters Aziraphale, apparently concentrating. “Too much?” 

“Hmmnn,” says Crowley, a couple of octaves higher than he would usually do.

“Alright, then, let’s see. How does this feel?” the angel asks, and Crowley feels the slick tip of Aziraphale’s finger circling his hole.

“Oh, oh, angel, yes, _ eeeennggghhhn_,” he says, because feedback is important.

Aziraphale makes one of the pleased anticipatory noises Crowley usually associates with delivery of a particularly fine hors d’oeuvre, and fuck that’s an image Crowley didn’t know he needed. Crowley makes another noise. 

Aziraphale, encouraged, rubs a little more confidently, working the pad of his finger right where Crowley would like him to get on with it, ta muchly, until he gives a gentle push and Crowley feels it inside him, Aziraphale’s finger inside him and he blinks. Honestly, it feels like a bit of an anticlimax to Crowley, but then Aziraphale starts to move.

Aziraphale seems to be treating this whole process the way he might a meal, or a task, or really anything he decides to go about in earnest — with mindful seriousness and total concentration. He pushes in with his finger and pulls out, in and out, in and out, until Crowley is rethinking his ability to hold himself up, lets his arms do what they want and collapses to his elbows. His cheek is pressed into the pillow and his arse is in the air, and Aziraphale is casually seated behind him, fucking him with his index finger. 

“Oh angel, the fuck are you doing to me,” he moans. Crowley doesn’t know what, but he wants this to never ever stop. Who knew this could feel like that? Monstrous, thinks Crowley.

“I’m fingering you, dear, I thought that was obvious. Are you enjoying it?” asks the angel and Crowley is, oh yes he is, and Aziraphale correctly takes his incoherent moans for assent, adding a second lubed-up finger, maintaining the rhythm he set at the start — in and out, in and out. Crowley is losing his mind, and possibly the power of speech. The angel just doesn’t _ stop _ , not for anything, not even when he’s making reassuring noises and soothing endearments to Crowley, who now has two of his best friend’s fingers inside him, in the middle of the nest he’s made for his only love. He bites his knuckles and prays — Really prays! Out loud! To actual God! — that he lives through this, because this, right now, is _ everything_.

Aziraphale is laughing at him, but it’s so full of adoration and accompanied by praise and instructions, Crowley doesn’t mind. He can do this. He can do this all day. 

“How do you want me?” asks Aziraphale, and Crowley doesn’t know what he means at first. Has he not made it clear he’s wanted Aziraphale in his life _ and _ his bed for millennia? And that he couldn’t _ not _ want him if he tried — because for a while there he really had tried. Then he works out what Aziraphale means, and chokes on his own spit.

“Oh nnnggggggggk,” he groans. “Whatever, oh whatever you want, just don’t… don’t make me think, for the love of humanity. Angel, do whatever you want.”

“You’re thinking of humanity now?” asks Aziraphale, cheekily, and Crowley growls. Or he tries. Aziraphale’s fingers are still stroking into him as if timed, by metronome, in to the knuckle and out again, over and over. Half of Crowley’s body is throbbing with it.

Aziraphale chuckles, hums, and makes neat little thinking noises. Crowley is going to die.

“Alright, Crowley,” he says, apparently having come to a conclusion. “Are you with me now?”

“With you? Where the fuck else would I be right now?” Crowley moans. “Paris? Meggido? The sodding Ninth Circle?”

“Oh hush,” chides Aziraphale, who leans forward to pat the head of the bed with his free hand, slapping his palm to the sturdy beam. For a moment Crowley imagines him slapping his palm to Crowley’s trembling arse cheeks and he swallows. He levers up back on his hands, clutches the bedframe. Absolutely, yes, angel, whatever you say, he thinks.

“That’s right, love, lean forward,” Aziraphale praises him, ceases his incessant rhythm and curls his fingers, without warning, right _ there _ and Crowley howls with the spasm, jerking forward and smacking his forehead into the backs of his own clenched hands. Aziraphale seems taken aback at the response.

“Do that again,” Crowley demands, hoarse. 

Aziraphale chuckles. “Oh, of course, dear,” he says, and does. 

Then Aziraphale withdraws his fingers, which leaves Crowley open and cursing until Aziraphale knocks Crowley’s knees further apart, spreading him wide. Crowley is definitely having some sort of religious experience. His dick is waving in the wind, high and proud, making — as predicted — a mess of the blanket. 

Aziraphle shuffles behind him and Crowley can hear the cap of the lube again. There are a few deep gasps and Aziraphale, presumably, slicks up his cock, and then Crowley feels the curl and press of Aziraphale’s hand against one of his own on the bedhead, and the heat of the angel’s body hovering over his back. Crowley imagines what this looks like, Aziraphale lining up against Crowley’s arsehole, weighing his dick in his hands as he finds the right place and right angle and then Crowley can _ feel _ it, a warm, hard press right up against himself and he…

Well. Crowley doesn’t _ cry _, as such. He’s very demonic. It would be unseemly. 

Aziraphale isn’t even doing anything yet, he’s just steadying himself, with the tip of his dick up against Crowley’s wet, tender hole and rubbing his thumb over the back of Crowley’s hand. So no, no crying. Perhaps there’s a whimper or two, there’s begging, certainly, and shushes from Aziraphale and more questions, and reassurances and then Crowley yelling, “Alright, angel, just fuck me already, just hold me down and fuck me,” which is rather more than perhaps he’d intended to reveal, but is at least effective.

Aziraphale tenses and clutches his hips and thrusts in and it feels unbearable, hot and endless as it pushes inside him, and then Crowley is suddenly having utterly inappropriate flashbacks to that scene in that Naked Gun movie with trains and tunnels, and he giggles. He tries not to, but he can’t stop. It’s so funny, what they’re doing, what he’s feeling. He hiccups, helplessly.

“_ Crowley _,” gasps Aziraphale, half admonishment, half wonder, but Crowley’s still giggling.

“Oh, oh darling, stop, I can’t, oh it’s too good, stop it, won’t you?” Aziraphale pleads.

Crowley makes himself swallow and chokes back his laughter, but really he’s flying higher than a kite, the burn in his backside seemingly releasing floods of lunacy. He gulps a few breaths and steadies himself, gets used to the feeling. Aziraphale seems to be doing much the same thing.

WIth a stroke to Crowley’s hip bone, and the spread of hot, damp fingers, Aziraphale starts to move. Crowley holds on for dear life. The angel starts with slow, experimental thrusts, trying to replicate his rhythm from before — in and out, back and forth.

“Good?” he asks Crowley.

“Mnnn,” says Crowley. It is, and it’s enough, apparently, better maybe even than the inexorable fingers, he could again do this all day. He hopes Aziraphale will. They’ll get tired eventually, but it’s not like they need to eat. Crowley’s found his new favourite way to pass the centuries of his existence — with Aziraphale’s dick in his ass with the concentration of a pedantic, meticulous book-keeper, and the reliability of a Victorian piston engine. 

It’s good. It’s so good, Crowley is taken by surprise when Aziraphale, making moans and appreciative noises of his own, makes a few adjustments and all of a sudden Crowley is filled with shivery rivulets of warm ice, and his balls clench tight. His face collides with the bed frame and he yelps. He’s suddenly reminded of the unfortunate tendency of Victorian piston engines to build up so much pressure they explode. 

He grips hold. “Angel,” he grits out, “I mean it, I will do anything, go anywhere, bring you anything you want just do that again and don’t sto—” and he can’t finish his admittedly rambling sentence before Aziraphale has memorised the angle and is hitting that place over and over and over again, and Crowley, Crowley is a building, white-hot mess that eventually consumes him entirely.

He feels himself clench around Aziraphale where he’s buried deep in his arse, his orgasm shocking him like lightning from the first storm over Eden. Just like then, or, you know, not really exactly like then at all, Aziraphale is covering him, holding him, protecting him and stroking him as he thoroughly fucks Crowley over the Liberty blanket, until Crowley’s spent and utterly lost and Aziraphale follows, shouting and shuddering. 

Eventually, Aziraphale pulls out — yep, that hurts — and eases back, collapsing on his side, facing Crowley, who’s still gripping the bedframe.

“Ow,” says Crowley, looking helplessly at his angel, who looks suddenly devastated.

“Ow, good,” Crowley says, hurriedly, “Oh so good, angel, you don’t know how good.”

“”I think I might, actually,” says Aziraphale, out of breath, sitting back up and scooping Crowley up by the shoulders, turning him over on the bed, before settling back down so they’re face to face. 

Crowley glomps him, stretching up against him, working out all the bunched muscles and rubbing his oversensitized self up against his — his! — angel. 

“So, that was a yes, yes?” he asked drowsily, wanting to make sure.

“And you call me stupid, my beautiful, precious darling,” says Aziraphale, tutting. Crowley is a puddle, he’s going to become one with the blanket and just melt, leaving only the impression of a snake tattoo. Azirpahle will have to re-corporate him. At least he hopes so. He wants to do that again.

“I’m going to stay here, and let you sleep. In your nest. That you made, for me,” clarifies Aziraphale, and Crowley’s eyes are big and probably yellow from side to side. He grins, wide and honest, and Aziraphale beams right back. 

“Rest, you infernal wyrm,” Aziraphale says, fondly. 

In his nest, with his angel, Crowley does.   


THE END

  



End file.
